


Objects in Space

by Polly_Lynn



Series: TARDIS-Verse [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It hadn’t been a problem. And that was weird, but weird in a good way. But now? Now, it’s a PROBLEM. A serious problem. For him. And he thinks for her. For her, too. He’s pretty sure. Even with her sauntering away and tossing that line over her shoulder. Even with that, he’s pretty sure it’s a problem for her, too.” A post-Cuffed (4x10) one-shot in the TARDIS-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Objects in Space

**Author's Note:**

> This is the ninth story in the TARDIS-verse. I think this is around when I started to accept that it was a 'Verse.

It's a problem. He thought it would be a problem. He had good reason to think it would be a problem. There was precedent. Months and months of painful precedent all that time ago. The first time he kissed her it was a problem. For him, anyway.

For her? He's always wondered. There was Josh back then, but still. Still, he had wondered. Spent who knows how many nights wondering. Swinging wildly between certainty and wishful thinking.

Because that was _not_ just him. That kiss? He's pretty sure that wasn't just him. Not just his breath, heavy and complicated between them. Not just his hands reaching and hesitating. Just barely hesitating to let go. Not just his longing. Josh or no Josh—and by the way, he still fucking hates that guy. He doesn't think it was just him. Which was always part of the problem.

So he thought this time that it would definitely be a problem. He thought that knowing—not having to _wonder—_ would be a big fucking problem. And then it _wasn't_ a problem.

And why not? Why was it that she could kiss him and he could kiss her and they could just have that—put it aside, just there for a while—and know that it would keep? How did that happen, given him and her and the whole big mess of it?

But it wasn't a problem. It hadn't been a problem. And that was weird, but weird in a good way.

But now? _Now_ , it's a PROBLEM. A serious problem.

For him. And he thinks for her. For her, too. He's pretty sure. Even with her sauntering away and tossing that line over her shoulder. Even with that, he's pretty sure it's a problem for her, too.

Because, yeah, that look? And even before that. With the coat and her leaning into him and letting him slide her hair free of her collar like they do this every day. Like they could just . . . _do_ this. The thought, the memory. It fizzes through him and lights him up and he wants to go to her right now.

It's a problem. And it's not his fault.

Not that it's her fault.

Well, it's absolutely her fault, because she ought to be required by international law to register . . . pretty much everything about her as a deadly weapon, but especially . . . _that_. _All_ that: The warm, sleepy smile. The long, lazy _S_ of her body next to his. That's all definitely her fault, but it's not _deliberate_. Probably not deliberate. Probably.

_Next time, let's do it without the tiger._

He'd woken first. She can never, _ever_ know that. But that was her fault, too. Something had tickled his ear. Her sweater, probably, and her arm crooked behind his neck, reeling him in. And then he was rolling toward her. Toward her warmth and those criminal little noises she apparently makes when she sleeps. Passes out. Is drugged. _Whatever._

It's not like it was on purpose. It's not like he'd made a _decision_ to lie there watching her. Timing his breaths to hers and listening to her murmur and sigh and wrinkle her nose and . . . oh, _God_ , it's a problem.

He hadn't even realized he was awake. Just assumed he was dreaming, because . . . well . . . And by the time he took in the dirty mattress and just how badly his back was killing him and caught himself thinking that she was beautiful, even in the dank light . . . by the time he registered the internal _what the hell?_ that went along with _dank light_ she was stirring and he'd panicked. Flopped to his back and played possum and it took her forever— _forever!_ —to really wake up. Forever. And he feels cheated.

Because he wants to know what she looks like in that very first moment. Wants to memorize the way her face comes to life. Her body. Wants to see the bunch and roll of her shoulders. The extension of her toes as she works her way up and out of sleep. He wants to see her arch and stretch and turn her face up to the morning light. He wants every moment.

It's a problem.

* * *

She's not supposed to be cleaning. Not in the middle of the night and not in general. It's an exercise. Something about not controlling every aspect of her environment and redirecting energy from things to people.

It's one of Burke's stupider ideas anyway, particularly right now when she is crackling with energy that she would very much like to direct to a specific person. So she's cleaning.

It hasn't been that long. Not even two weeks since the sniper. Since she told Burke that she wanted to be more. Not even two weeks since her first "assignment" had gotten her into trouble. Them into trouble.

She's been thinking about that. Constantly. When she makes herself lie down. Go through the motions of a nightly routine as though she'll sleep. Another exercise.

She thinks about him yelling at her. Yelling at her in the middle of a graveyard. The shock and then . . . relief? More than that. Gratitude. Something that's almost satisfaction. He snapped at her. Made demands. And it was like getting back a part of him. A huge, important part of him that she hadn't realized was missing.

And he kissed her. She kissed him and he kissed her back.

She's been thinking about it constantly, but also sleeping. At least once in a while. And resting when she doesn't. Sometimes, at least. Sometimes.

But tonight is not sometimes. Tonight is not once in a while. Tonight she can feel the weight of his shoulders across her arm and his fingers skimming over her lower back and the crazy-making nearness of him. Tonight she's thinking about waking up next to him, the warmth and contentment and overwhelming sense of finally. _Finally._ Tonight they survived a fucking tiger. Tonight, she's cleaning.

She pulls each and every object off each and every flat surface. Moves her hands in wide circles. Back and forth in overlapping arcs. She follows right angles and curves. Sinks her fingers into grooves. Lets the faint scent of furniture oil soothe her.

She's never thought about it before, but this is part of it. Part of what she's been doing for the last 12 years to keep it together. This accumulation of things. Dozens of tiny objects to be placed and replaced precisely. Her hands going through the motions over and over and over again while her mind ticks on and her heart and soul bide their time. While the biggest part of who she is—or who she could be anyway—bides its time.

How many did she have before, she wonders? How many little fetishes gathering imaginary dust to deal with? It's bad enough now. Sobering to think of the steady build back up from zero in . . . what? Not even two years.

That's trouble, too. Thinking about that. Him standing arm's length from her. Arm's length and a little more. His head turned away, eyes shut tight and his hands—the sheer weight of his hands—hovering over her naked shoulders. Pointedly not landing on them to keep his coat in place. His arms definitely, absolutely _not_ wrapping her up, not pulling the two halves of it together. The two of them pointedly _not_ clinging to each other while her life burned down around them. Not holding on. Not whispering against each other: "Thank God, thank _God_ there's more time."

That's trouble, and it's been a while. It's not new. She's not sure how to feel about that.

She sets the thing in her hand back down. A jade elephant that she hates. It's beautiful. Careful and delicate and she hates it. Something she picked up on a whim to replace a battered thing she'd lost. Chipped and scarred and missing a tusk. Something of her mother's. A dumb, last-ditch airport gift from her father. A feeble attempt to make amends.

They'd been fighting over some business trip of his. He'd handled it badly and so had her mother. Jethro—that was the elephant's name, Kate remembers suddenly—Jethro had lost his tusk when her mother had hurled him at her father's head. Next to her father's head. Johanna Beckett didn't miss unless she wanted to and Jethro had smashed into the wall. And then the fight was over, just like that. They'd laughed and triaged the little elephant. Given up his tusk for lost and set the wounded soldier in a place of honor.

She runs a finger over the new elephant. Feels a pang of sympathy for him. For the fact that he doesn't have a name. Doesn't have a story. He can't help being alive and whole and new. And he _is_ a beautiful thing and . . . _oh._

She fucking hates therapy. Hates feeling stupid all the time when the most obvious realizations dawn. The most obvious realizations in the world. She hates feeling stupid.

There's only one shelf left. She's been avoiding it. She hates that, too, but it's true. She thinks about leaving it. Taking herself off to bed and counting it as a win. As partial credit toward the things she's supposed to be doing and not doing, but a stubborn swell of anger takes hold of her then and she's standing in front of it. The long stretch of dark-colored spines, his name running down each in strong capitals. Primary colors and elegant serifs.

Any good this has done her, breaking Burke's stupid rules to get through the night, is gone in an instant. Any energy she's managed to burn off surges back into her. Fills every cell with light and heat and trouble. This is trouble.

Her fingers are trailing over the letters. She's crowding against the shelf. Sagging against the wall with want.

 _I'm so sorry_.

That had undone her. Just for an instant. The weight of it. Every possible meaning. That he blames himself for the bullet in her chest and everything broken about her. For how far apart they are, when they shouldn't be. They _shouldn't_ be.

It was another realization to hate, and for a moment, it had undone her. But then . . . anger and force and determination that if nothing else, she was going to live long enough to convince him that it's not. Whatever he did back then, however she started back down that path, it's not on him. He didn't break her.

There's not much to do here. Things haven't accumulated on this particular shelf. She likes the unobstructed view. Likes to tip her head back over her shoulder from wherever she is and see old favorites and new stories. Their stories. Things he's made just for her. He makes them just for her and they both know that.

It isn't cluttered with _things_. Just a handful of totems, and she knows them all. Except . . .

She's startled. Afraid for a minute, because things just appearing in her space is never good. Her fingers close around it before she really sees it. She doesn't open her fist. Not right away. She hefts it in her palm. Rolls it around and sounds out the hollows and prominences. She figures it out. Laughs and opens her hand. Opens her eyes wide and laughs.

It's a terrible likeness. The red armbands are entirely the wrong color and they clash with the bright yellow skin. Trying to give her Jennifer Garner's full complement of lips was a BIG mistake and the swords are silly and all wrong. And the breast plate? _Well_ . . . But she loves it. She loves it instantly, and she's laughing. Grinning like mad. She loves it, and when the hell could he have put it there?

After Lone Vengeance, but has he been here since then? They're not . . . he doesn't stop by. They must have come here for something and he must have had it with him just in case. Just in case she let him in. He had it with him just in case.

She wants to call him. She wants to call him right now and ask him. She's halfway through dialing when she realizes it's 1:15 AM and that's not what she wants at all. What she wants is trouble. More trouble.

She deflates. Sets the little figure down carefully and lets her mind wander back and forth, blooding itself on the keen edge of disappointment. She can't call him. It's not just trouble, it's complicated and unfair and . . . she can't just _call_ him.

And then the plan arrives just like that. Fully formed. It's crazy and she'd be blowing a _huge_ favor and that feels exactly right. She wants to spend it on him because he's important. Because he's essential.

She can't call him. She won't call him. She'll do better than that.

* * *

It's the middle of the night and it looks like his office barfed. There are books and toys and dust-gathering, spur-of-the-moment must-haves everywhere. The floor, the back of the couch—everything is strewn with objects. It's a good thing that Alexis and his mother won't be back until Sunday. They hate when he gets like this and he doesn't need the grief.

He can't find anything. It's driving him crazy. It's the middle of the night and he can't find the fencing foil he wants, and he's tripped over the others half a dozen times as he wanders around the office, pulling things down and setting them aside.

Most of his bucky balls seem to be missing. He suspects Alexis there. She'd been asking pointed questions about them for . . . something. A school project? Something practical, anyway, and he _needs_ them right now.

It's the middle of the night. He's bored. He's alone. And it's a _problem._

And where the hell are his bucky balls anyway?

He tears open another drawer and roots around. There's nothing. Except that's not quite true. He falls back in the chair, the heavy brass nothing spinning between his fingers. Heavier than it ought to be. Heavier.

He remembers now. A separate dry cleaner's hanger. He found it . . . in October maybe. Safety pinned and bagged all on its own. Absurd for a single button. Even one that looks important. Momentous.

It must have been in his pocket. He doesn't even know how . . . someone must have sent it all off. He'd have burned it. All of it. His mother or Alexis must have bundled up his blood-soaked clothes and sent them off.

It must have been in his pocket. He must have pulled it free. Jerked open the jacket of her dress uniform and tried to do something useful. More useful than looming over her making inopportune confessions. He must have tried before the paramedics pulled him off and threw him aside. He supposes he's grateful for that. But he doesn't remember.

He he has no idea what to do with it now.

He thinks he should return it. But she can't have it any more, can she? The jacket, the shirt. It has to be gone. Burned up as a biohazard or rotting in an evidence bag or . . . he doesn't even know what. The thought of it makes him sick. The thought of any of it still existing in the world makes him sick.

But this. _This._ He wants to deliver it right now. In the middle of the night, he wants to give her back this piece as though she'll need it. As though there's something he can do to help put her back together. He thinks there is. Not buttons and metaphors in the middle of the fucking night, but he thinks he could help and she doesn't. She doesn't think that. She thinks it's something she has to do alone. He has no idea what to do with it. With any of it.

Another problem. It's the middle of the night and it's another problem.

He looks around the room. Out into the living room through the mostly empty bookshelves. The floor is littered with a sea of Derek Storms and advance copies from Patterson. Classics and guilty pleasures and Nikki Heats somewhere at the bottom of the piles. Those were the first to go and he has no comment on that. No comment.

It's suddenly all too much. He needs to be out. Away from here. He needs . . . he just _needs._

His phone chimes. It's too good to be true, that timing. But it chimes precisely an instant before he loses it. All of him goes quiet. His eyes close and his breath comes in and goes out under its own power. It has nothing to do with him. It fills him up. Down to the last rib, it fills him up, and he's quiet.

It's Kate. He knows that with absolutely certainty. It could be half a dozen other people. There are simpler explanations, but he knows it's her.

_I did not survive a bullet to the heart to end up as tiger kibble._

He flips the phone over and nothing is quiet then. His heart is drumming hard and his blood is a relentless current in his ears. _Time out?_

It takes him a second. Takes part of him a second. The stupid part. He's all stupid when it comes to her. But the slightly less stupid parts are in charge of his thumbs and he's firing back a message: _Time out._

* * *

She thinks it's perfect. Then she thinks it's awful. Then she thinks it's perfect again.

She would have liked more time to think, but Mike ran out of patience in a hurry, and who could blame him? A favor is a favor, but who asks someone to get out of bed and open their shop in the middle of the night? For something like this. Like _this._ A seven-dollar metaphor. A gesture that no one else could possibly understand.

Anyway she's out of time. She's just about out of time already.

The line at Bully's is longer than she would have thought and she wants to be ready. Wants to be out there waiting when he walks up. Wants to be able to press the steaming cup into his hand with the smile that they share. He'll be here soon and she doesn't want him to have to wait. She can't stand the thought that he might have to wonder, even for a second, if she'd really come. If she'd be there.

The line of bodies lurches forward. Loud, drunk twenty somethings. Gray-faced business types in limp Friday suits. One or two shift workers grabbing something at the start of their day.

She heaves a sigh of relief when a counter worker catches her eye, "Food?"

"No. Just two coffees." She smiles and the breath rushes out of the kid. _Too much_ , she thinks.

He shakes himself. Nice-looking guy. A little shaggy, but his eyes are sharp and observant. He's taking everything in, and she wonders what he's doing in a place like this. He gestures her down to the register. She brushes by a pair of girls teetering unsteadily on their strappy, spike-heeled sandals, their belly shirts riding up to offer unwanted glimpses of ratty lace. She wonders what _she's_ doing in a place like this. She pats one coat pocket, then the other and smiles. Remembers. He'll be here soon.

The kid pushes the coffees and her change across the counter and smiles back at her like they're sharing a secret, "Have a great night, ok?"

"Doing my best," she says as her hands close around the two cups. They're hot—ouch, _hot_ —against her palms, but it feels good. It feels like them. It feels like home.

She snakes her way through the crowd. Business has picked up even since she got here, and she's glad she didn't dither down the street. It's perfect.

She turns and presses her back to the door, elbows high to keep the coffee from sloshing. She steps backward and spins. Catches the door with one elbow to ease it closed and there he is.

There he is.

"Hi." His brow furrows the minute he says it. Like he hadn't realized until he said that it's all he's got. Just the one syllable and that's all he's got.

Kate grins and presses the coffee into his hand.

"Hey," she says and then she gets it. The expression on his face. Because what's next? What now?

Trouble. It's trouble clawing its way up her throat, but then her hand drops to pat her pocket. She feels the weight of it. The sharp irregular angles and she smiles again. It's perfect.

She smiles at him. Nods at the coffee in his hand. "Ninety-eight?"

His face breaks out in this all-over smile and her knees nearly go out from under her.

"Ninety-eight," he says. "Ninety-eight."

* * *

Her plan really ends at the curb. All sorts of places to go in New York in the middle of the night, but not many to be. They need some place to be.

"Park?"

Kate shrugs and they fall in step. She tells him to talk and he asks what he should talk about.

"Stuff," she says. Elaborates. Sort of. "Objects. _Things_."

And he talks. They chat quietly like it's not weird. And it's not. They make up the rules as they go along and it's not weird at all.

He's telling her about his missing bucky balls. Shakes his head pityingly when she asks why the hell he needs them so desperately and if he couldn't just buy another set.

"It's the _principle_ of the thing," he sniffs and she laughs.

There's a quiet corner of the park and it's empty. Miraculously empty. There's a bench and a soft pool of light and it's perfect. He hesitates. He doesn't know what's next, but she does. She drops on to one end and sighs contentedly and he squeezes in next to her before he can think better of it.

They sit side by side sipping their coffee. Their shoulders brush together. Elbows and hips and once in a while she'll deliberately bump his knee with hers to make a point, to soften something she's not letting him get away with. And it's not weird at all. They talk and don't talk. It's not heavy or careful or life and death. It's not weird.

It _is_ going somewhere, though. He can tell it's going somewhere and that worries him a little. In the background it worries him, because she's not in a hurry, but it's going somewhere.

"You were up?"

He nods, even though she's not looking at him when she asks. Feels stupid a second later and clears his throat. Wonders what's wrong with it all of a sudden. He clears his throat.

"I was up."

She nods now. But she doesn't have to wonder whether or not he's looking at her. She never has to wonder.

"Good," she says after a minute, then changes her mind. "I mean, not good that you were up, but I'm glad I didn't wake . . . are you ok? Sleeping ok?"

"Um . . ." He draws out the sound. It ends in a breathless laugh. "I'm not a great sleeper at the best of times."

And this is not the best of times. The implication hangs there between them.

 _Shit_ , he thinks. _Shit._

She's withering. Getting smaller by the minute right there on the bench next to him. Withdrawing and holding herself apart.

_Shit._

"Are you finished?" He asks it quietly. Regrets it half a second later. The coffee. He meant the coffee, but that's not how it sounds.

Or maybe it is. She looks at her coffee cup. Shakes it and there's a hollow slosh. She nods, eyes on the ground.

He pushes up from the bench and plucks the cup from her hand. She stirs. Moves as if to rise.

"No." It comes out sharper than he intended and her head snaps up.

She's a little annoyed and that's good. That's better.

"Stay," he says. Her eyes narrow and that makes him grin. That's better. "Be right back."

He trots over to the garbage can and deposits the cups.

When he turns back, she's holding her hand out, palm up. There's something on it. Something balanced on it and there is this smile on her face. This heated glimmer of something and _Whoa_ is _that_ a problem.

He takes a step toward her because he has to. She doesn't move and he takes another step. He's nervous and curious. Curious wins out. Another step and he sees it now. Realizes what it is and he's smiling so hard his face hurts.

"You found her!" He drops back on to the bench next to her and leans in close. Taps the little yellow monstrosity on the head with a fingertip.

"I found her, Castle."

"Oh, she's hideous, isn't she?" He sounds delighted.

"Hey!" She slaps his hand away and curls her fingers around the little figure protectively. "No dissing Elektra!"

"I'm not!" He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not. I'm just saying the ladies don't translate into Lego so well."

"Maybe not," she says grudgingly as she slips her hand into her pocket. Tucks her away safe and sound.

She looks at him and he trips over his own breath. She waits another second and lets it play out. Lets him see that she's faltering, too. That this is trouble. It's trouble and she wants it.

"Thanks, Castle," she says quietly after a while. It doesn't feel like enough. "Thanks."

He shrugs. Trying for casual and falling short. Falling short because his eyes crinkle up and there's that dimple that only comes out when he smiles really hard. "Thought you could use a friend."

She smiles back. Tight and close lipped. If she lets go any more than that who knows what will happen? Who knows what kind of trouble they'll be in.

But she smiles because she has to. She didn't know quite how to do this and here's an opening. The perfect opening. Her hand slips into her other coat pocket and she produces it with a flourish. Unfurls her fingers and holds her palm out to him.

"Thought you could use one, too."

His face collapses and she has a terrible moment. It's awful. She knew it. She knew it was awful.

"Batman," he breathes as he reaches out a hesitant finger. Touches just the tip of it to one corner of the stiff plastic cape streaming out behind him. "Beckett is that . . . it's a _jet ski_. It's Jet Ski Batman!"

Her heart starts beating again even as he goes still and she wonders if he knows—if he even realizes that he's been bouncing up and down.

He draws his hand back. His fingers flicker in agitation. Uncertainty. "For me?"

She wants to roll her eyes. It's probably the thing to do. It's probably what he _expects_ her to do. But the question breaks her heart just a little bit. Just a little.

"For you, Castle." She grabs his hand. Unfolds his fingers and sets it gently on his palm. Pulls back and admires her handiwork. It looks good. It looks good on the broad, sure sea of his palm. "For you, the coolest toy I could find in the middle of the night."


End file.
